The first shot rang out and he heard it whump into the front of the hut. One...then the second...two...he was counting them, not moving his eyes from the front edge of the hut...three...four...be ready.... Five! Now, Chink!
He heard him--hurried steps on the packed sand--and almost immediately he saw him cutting sharply around the edge of the hut, stopping, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily but thinking he was safe. Then Brennan stood up.
'Here's one facing you, Chink.'
He saw the look of surprise, the momentary expression of shock, a full second before Chink's revolver flashed up from his side and Brennan's finger tightened on the trigger. With the report Chink lurched back against the wall, a look of bewilderment still on his face, although he was dead even as he slumped to the ground.
Brennan holstered the revolver and did not look at Chink as he walked past him around to the front of the hut. He suddenly felt tired, but it was the kind of tired feeling you enjoyed, like the bone weariness and sense of accomplishment you felt seeing your last cow punched through the market chute.
He thought of old man Tenvoorde, and only two days ago trying to buy the yearlings from him. He still didn't have any yearlings.
What the hell do you feel so good about?
Still, he couldn't help smiling. Not having money to buy stock seemed like such a little trouble. He saw Doretta come out of the trees and he walked on across the clearing.
Jugged
STAN CASS, HIS elbows leaning on the edge of the rolltop desk, glanced over his shoulder as he said, 'Take a look how I made this one out.'
Marshal John Boynton had just come in. He was standing in the front door of the jail office, one finger absently stroking his full mustache. He looked at his regular deputy, Hanley Miller, who stood next to a chair where a young man sat leaning forward looking at his hands.
'What's the matter with him?' Boynton said, ignoring Stan Cass.
Hanley Miller put his hand on the back of the chair. 'A combination of things, John. He's had too many, been beat up, and now he's tired.'
'He looks tired,' Boynton said, again glancing at the silent young man.
Stan Cass turned his head. 'He looks like a smart-aleck kid.'
Boynton walked over to Cass and picked up the record book from the desk. The last entry read:
NAME: Pete Given
DESCRIPTION: Ninteen. Medium height and build. Brown hair and eyes. Small scar under chin.
RESIDENCE: Dos Cabezas
OCCUPATION: Mustanger
CHARGE: Drunk and disorderly
COMMENTS: Has to pay a quarter share of the damages in the Continental Saloon whatever they are decided to be.
Boynton handed the record book to Cass. 'You spelled nineteen wrong.'
'Is that all?'
'How do you know he has to pay a quarter of the damages?'
'Being four of them,' Cass said mock seriously. 'I figured to myself: Now, if they have to chip in for what's busted, how much would--'
'That's for the judge to say. What were they doing here?'
'They delivered a string to the stage line,' Cass answered. He was a man in his early twenties, clean shaven, though his sideburns extended down to the curve of his jaw. He was smoking a cigarette and he spoke to Boynton as if he were bored.
'And they tried to spend all the profit in one night,' Boynton said.
Cass shrugged indifferently. 'I guess so.'
Boynton's finger stroked his mustache and he was thinking: Somebody's going to bust his nose for him. He asked, civilly, 'Where're the other three?'
Cass nodded to the door that led back to the first-floor cell. 'Where else?'
Hanley Miller, the regular night deputy, a man in his late forties, said, 'John, you know there's only room for three in there. I was wondering what to do with this boy.' He tipped his head toward the quiet young man sitting in the chair.
'He'll have to go upstairs,' Boynton said.
'With Obie Ward?'
'I guess he'll have to.' Boynton nodded to the boy. 'Pull him up.'
Hanley Miller got the sleepy boy on his feet.
Cass shook his head watching them. 'Obie Ward's got everybody buffaloed. I'll be a son of a gun if he ain't got everybody buffaloed.'
Boynton's eyes dropped to Cass, but he did not say anything.
'I'm just saying that Obie Ward don't look so tough,' Cass said.
'Act like you've got some sense once in a while,' Boynton said now. He had hired Cass the week before as an extra night guard--the day they brought in Obie Ward--but he was certain now he would not keep Cass. Tomorrow he would look around for somebody else. Somebody who didn't talk so much and didn't have such a proud opinion of himself.
'All I'm saying is he don't look so tough to me,' Cass repeated.
Boynton ignored him. He looked at the young man, Pete Given, standing next to Hanley now with his eyes closed, and he heard his deputy say, 'The boy's asleep on his feet.'
'He looks familiar,' Boynton said.
'We had him here about three months ago.'
'Same thing?'
Hanley nodded. 'Delivered his horses, then stopped off at the Continental. Remember, his wife come here looking for him. He was here five days because the judge was away and she got here court day. Pretty little thing with light-colored hair? Not more'n seventeen. Come all the way from Dos Cabezas by herself.'
'Least he had sense enough to get a good woman,' Boynton said. He seemed to hesitate. Then: 'You and I'll take him up.' He slipped his revolver from its holster and placed it on the desk. He took young Pete Given's arm then and raised it up over his shoulder, glancing at his deputy again. 'Hanley, you come behind with your shotgun.'
Cass watched them go through the door and down the hall to the back of the jail to the outside stairway, and he was thinking: Won't even wear his gun up there, he's so scared. That's some man to work for, won't even wear his gun when he goes in Ward's cell. He shook his head and said the name again, contemptuously. Obie Ward. He'd pull his tough act on me just once.
PETE GIVEN OPENED his eyes. Lying on his right side his face was close to the wall and for a moment, seeing the chipped and peeling adobe and smelling the stale mildewed smell of the mattress which did not have a cover on it, he did not know where he was. Then he remembered, and he closed his eyes again.
The sour taste of whiskey coated his mouth and he lay very still, waiting for the throbbing to start in his head. But it did not come. He raised his head and moved closer to the wall and felt the edge of the mattress cool and firm against his cheek. Still the throbbing did not come. There was a dull tight feeling at the base of his skull, but not the shooting sharp pain he had expected. That was good. He moved his toes and could feel his boots still on and there was no blanket covering him.
They just dumped you here, he thought. He made saliva in his mouth and kept swallowing until his mouth did not feel sticky and some of the sour taste went away. Well, what did you expect?
It's about all you deserve, buddy. No, it's more'n you deserve.
